


The Price

by gogirl212



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I hate season 3, a little bleeding, episode tag S3 Ep 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 18:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: France is safe, the King is rescued, but at what price?  Episode tap to Season 3, Episode 9 "The Prize."  An entry for the June Fete des Mousquetaires competition with the theme "Fathers".





	The Price

**Author's Note:**

> There were just a few things (ok a lot of things) that bothered me about this episode, so I figured I'd tackle a few of them for the Fete des Mousquetaires contest entry this month. Please read all of the great stories and vote for your favorites!

Porthos pulled up his mount just as Treville broke from the doorway, the boy clutched to his chest as he ran. Chaos was on his heels as Grimaud’s men pursued him, pouring from the open door and running from around the sides of the building. Treville ran breakneck toward him but Porthos dared not move closer lest he put the horses, their only means of escaping with the King, in range of gunfire. Treville had to make it. 

He heard the crack of a pistol followed by Treville’s agonized cry as he stumbled. Porthos shifted to dismount, instantly knowing what had happened. But no, Treville stayed on his feet, his pace faltering but he still closed the distance between them. They had maybe fifteen seconds at best before they would be in range of the rest of the mercenaries. Porthos drew and fired at the bastard who’d shot Treville, but his shot went wide as his horse danced beneath him. Nevertheless, the oncoming men hesitated, buying them a few more seconds. Treville would beat them. Invincible as ever, their wily old Captain. 

“Take him!” Treville shouted, handing the boy up to Porthos. The child was small in his large hands but despite the stress and danger Porthos handled him gently, quickly securing the young King in the saddle before him. He took up the reins, ready to ride as soon as Treville was mounted.

“Go!” Treville yelled, still at his side. Surprised at the order, Porthos glanced down, finding Treville’s steel grey eyes full of pain and determination. Porthos read his intent instantly – the Captain had known when he stumbled up to Porthos that he would not be mounting his horse. Time seemed to slow for just a moment, the din of pistol fire dropping away as Treville gave one last look to the young King he had given his life to protect, and then to Porthos, to whom he had just trusted the most prized possession of France. They locked eyes and Porthos knew it was farewell. For all his strength, Porthos had never felt so helpless but there was one thing Porthos could yet do – he pulled his remaining pistol from its holster and handed it down. Treville would not die today as First Minister, today he would die a Musketeer. 

There was no time for words, but there was no need for them. With no further hesitation, Porthos shifted around and spurred his horse forward as Treville turned to face the oncoming mercenaries, drawing his own pistol and letting out a war cry as fierce as any Porthos had heard on the battlefields of Spain. His horse bolted forward, Treville’s still in tow behind, as shots rang out and voices shouted. Porthos did not look behind him. There would be no shot to his back, his Captain had just given his life to ensure it. He thought he heard Aramis and Athos calling out but he could not afford to stop. Nothing would come between him and the palace. Porthos would not squander the price Treville had paid - the King would be safe. He rode as a man possessed.

 

The mad dash to the palace went by in a blur and Porthos found himself at the Eastern gate, demanding entry to the Louvre by virtue of his musketeer’s pauldron and the small figure perched before him. The iron and gold gates swung inward and Porthos was through as soon as there was enough room to clear the horse. He cantered up the gravel drive, through the gardens, and down the arched portico, his horse sounding like thunder on the paving stones as servants and courtiers scurried to get out of his way. The doors were open to the spring breeze and Porthos took his mount right into the vaulted receiving hall, iron shod hooves clacking noisily on the parquet flooring. He stopped at the bottom of the grand staircase, and ignoring the protests of ladies in waiting and shocked cavaliers he stormed up the stairs, down the long corridor and pushed open the doors to the Queen’s chambers.

The Queen stood at the foot of her bed, draped head to toe in black lace, her face stricken with despair. Porthos stopped in the doorway, the small bundle of the King still held preciously in his arms. He gave the Queen a slow and careful bow realizing he had barged into the royal apartments while Paris was on the brink of war and the Queen did not know if her son was alive or dead. Her blue eyes were damp with tears but she held up her head as her eyes asked the question her lips could not. Gently, Porthos lowered the King to his feet and turned him around. As soon as he saw the queen his joyous shouts of “Maman! Maman!” brought the ladies in waiting rushing into the chamber while the little King ran on wobbly legs into the arms of his mother. The Queen fell to her knees, gathering her son close and sobbing into his curly hair.

Porthos didn’t wait for acknowledgment or to give a report. He just turned and left the chamber – his mission complete and his duty done. He would leave it to someone else to tell the Queen the news of her First Minister’s death. He had honored Treville’s last order and there was nothing anyone else would ask of him this day. 

He didn’t have a destination in mind when he left the Queen’s rooms, he just knew he needed space. He did not want to go back to the Garrison. He could not face the regiment with the news he bore any better than he could have faced the grief of the Queen. He ghosted through the corridors, avoiding questions and conversations, until he wandered into the place he should have known that his heart was leading him – Treville’s office.

He walked slowly into the room, stopping before the great desk where he had stood so many times before to receive orders, make reports, or get dressed down. Athos may have taken over captaincy of the musketeers, but as War Minister and founder of the regiment, Treville hand no compunction in lending a strong hand with the men in his command when he saw fit. Porthos found a weak smile as his eyes flicked over the disorder of papers and quills strewn across the desk. It was the same as when Treville had been in the garrison, just more of it. Endless piles of paperwork that seemed to never get done. Now it truly was a hopeless cause as no hand would return to raise the quill. 

The first wave of grief washed through him.

Porthos bowed his head, feeling tears cling to his eyes and a hollowness in his chest he had not felt in a long, long time. Even Charon’s death had not carved out a hole in him so deeply. The depth of his sorrow surprised him, echoing the emptiness of a young boy crying over his dead mother. He thought briefly of his life in the slums of Paris, learning to take care of himself, to brawl, to steal, to survive. His near forced conscription into the infantry to avoid a sentence in the Chatelet. And Treville, appearing one day on his white horse to assess the men of his unit and hand pick the best soldiers to join the King’s elite guard. No one from his unit had passed muster – except him. He rode off with the musketeer captain uncertain of his fate but willing to put his trust in this hard as steel man who promised him a better life. And Treville had kept his word.

Porthos exhaled and ran a hand over the back of his head. He didn’t want to do this right now. He didn’t want to get lost in sorrow. He took another deep breath and moved to the tall window, gazing across the gardens and out toward the setting sun. It struck him as an odd office for the War Minister – one that gave a view of flowers and sunlight to the person designated to lay waste to the enemies of France. Maybe it was supposed to be a reminder of what they were fighting for? Porthos snorted, Treville had never seemed one for flowers.

He turned away from the window and moved back to the desk. His movement caused a breath of air to brush across the desktop, sending a small pile of papers wafting to the floor. Porthos stooped to pick them up, wondering if Treville had ever actually done any paperwork at all. Maybe he had just left it piled up there so the King would just think him busy? He snickered to himself thinking it would just like Treville to have some ulterior motive for the state of his desk. Porthos made a neat pile of the papers in his hand, then cleared a corner to stack them on. He shifted some more papers into the pile and uncovered a little silver figurine. Porthos smiled as he took it up in his hand – a silver fox.

He knew where this was from. It had been a token from Louis after the musketeers had bested the red guard in the contest between the regiments. Treville had first elected himself to stand in as champion against the brutal and deadly LeBarge and the King had excitedly proclaimed that his old fox would overcome the Cardinal’s man. Treville almost did, until LeBarge had acted without honor. No matter that it was D’Artagnan who stepped in to finish the fight, saving Treville’s life and the honor of the regiment, Louis had seen it as a gesture of honor to him that Treville would let no one but himself stand for the Musketeers. Louis had never understood the sacrifice that Treville had made was to save his men, not for anyone’s glory, but there was no dissuading Louis of anything. The silver fox had been gifted to the Musketeer Captain under Cardinal Richelieu’s nose at a state dinner. Treville had been quite proud to put it on his desk in the palace where he swore it kept Richelieu’s ghost at bay. Porthos gently set the fox atop the parchments he had been stacking. It made for an excellent paperweight.

Porthos continued to absent-mindedly sort through the desk, creating orderly piles from the chaos of Treville’s life. His hand lingered on some unopened letters bearing seals from distant nobles. What did it mean that Treville’s eyes would never see these? The busy work of an unfinished life. Treville had given his entire life to the service of the crown and yet had been ready to give so much more. Porthos neatly stacked the letters into their own pile. 

At the top of the desk his eye caught a black lacquered box, the outline of a fleur de lis inlaid in silver on the top. He’d seen this box often enough over the years – it seemed to roam around Treville’s office. Sometimes on the desk, sometimes by his bedside and sometimes in the drawer with his brandy. Treville had few possessions beyond the ones required for soldiering or administration and Porthos had always been curious about them. But in all their years together he had never asked. He picked up the box and let his thumb smooth across the lid. One of Treville’s secrets was inside and he thought it wasn’t right to open it. But as the wood warmed in his hand his regret at not knowing more of the Captain’s life tugged at him. He should have asked. He would know now how to the honor the man if he had. He opened the lid.

Inside were a collection of stamped tin pins, all variations of the fleur de lis design, each clipped to a scrap of blue cloth. These were cadet pins. They received them when they first petitioned to join the regiment and wore them on their baldrics or cloaks. Most of the regiment continued to wear them even after they received their commissions and the leather pauldron became the sign of their status as members of the Musketeers. The bit of cloth this one was attached to was torn and frayed with a rusty red stain leaching from behind the pin. Porthos picked up two others noting the holes in the cloth, the stains and tears. His breath caught as he recognized what they were and he gently placed the them back in the box with their brothers, closing the lid. He did not need to count them to know there would be twenty.

Porthos held the box between his hands as memories of their confrontation with Treville over Marsac’s accusations stung his heart. The deserter’s reappearance had nearly ripped their brotherhood apart. Porthos refused to believe that Treville was capable of the treachery he was accused of, but the Captain’s inability to deny it left them all reeling. His heart had been bitterly torn when he had stood with the others outside Treville’s office and watched Aramis storm off into the rain, ready to abandon them in search of a truth no one really wanted to find. Porthos had felt tremendously guilty for doubting Treville moments before yet in that bleak moment he had chosen Treville over Aramis. That Aramis had been right was something else altogether they all had had to come to terms with. But Treville had not been a traitor, he was a soldier that duty had forced into the ultimate sacrifice – not his own death, but the death of his own. 

Reverently, Porthos returned the box to its place on the desk and resumed his careful sorting. He would have to remember to show Aramis. Treville and Aramis were the opposite sides of a black coin for a payment that should never have been rendered. Porthos thought it would give Aramis solace to know Treville had held vigil to the memories of their fallen comrades just as he did. Perhaps he did know. Aramis always seemed to figure out the subtleties of the heart far more readily than Porthos. For Porthos, it was often black and white. People were good or bad, loved or hated, angry or joyous. Finding enough middle ground was always hard for him. Treville was more like him in that as well so when they did clash, it was thunderous.

For all of Porthos’s loyalty to Treville, a loyalty that had almost pushed Aramis outside of their circle, he had been quick enough to let that loyalty be challenged when he felt Treville was hiding something from him. Porthos sighed deeply and felt a flush rise to his cheeks as he remembered his shameful behavior toward the Captain over the matter of his father. Just as Aramis had been determined to find the truth to Savoy no matter the cost, Porthos had taken the same stance about the secret that Treville carried about him. Every day that Treville refused to answer, Porthos had worked harder to make his disgust with the man known. Porthos took in a shaking breath and steadied himself with a hand to the back of Treville’s chair. That day in the garrison when he pulled his pauldron from his arm, he knew he had chosen the one gesture that would hurt Treville perhaps even more than it hurt him. His loyalty and love for Treville also meant he could wound him more deeply than almost anyone else. 

And the outcome? Porthos exhaled forcibly, trying to hold off the tears that again filled his eyes. The outcome was he discovered who his father truly was. Not the man whose bloodline he bore, but the man who despite everything that had gone on had rode to his defense when he knew Belgarde would turn on him, had faced a loaded pistol to prove his honesty, had offered up his very life to let Porthos make his own choice. His breath hitched as he choked back a sob and the tears finally rolled down his cheeks. After that day, he could never truly say he was fatherless again – until this day. For the second time in his life, Porthos was an orphan.

He cried for some time, but not very long. It wasn’t in his nature to stand and weep over the circumstances of his life. He was a survivor and that meant living with sorrow, not giving in to it. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the tears as he let his breathing even out. He straightened his shoulders letting his other hand drop from the chair that he had leaned on so heavily a moment before. He took a soldier’s stance and his body reminded him how to find strength. One hand to his rapier, another on his back he stood at attention and remembered the pride he felt when Treville had slipped his pauldron over his shoulder on a long ago day when the garrison was yet half built and the Musketeers still proving their worth. Treville had once called him one of the finest warriors in the regiment and Porthos vowed he would be that every day, for the rest of his days. He slipped the sword from his belt and took it in both hands, admiring again the quality of the blade, the detail of the carvings, the graceful curve of the basket over the hilt. A warrior’s blade – Treville’s blade. He lowered it to the desk, placing it across the neat and orderly stacks of papers. Like the silver fox or the cadet pins it was an artifact of Treville’s life, one Porthos had born with honor but now would lay at rest with him as his Captain found his eternal sleep. 

Footsteps in the hallway outside pulled him from his thoughts. Porthos shifted from the behind the desk, as if afraid to be caught by Treville rummaging through his things. But it was Aramis leading a bloodied and bruised D’Artagnan who entered the room, one hand gripped tightly around the younger man’s arm in a gesture Porthos knew signaled Aramis’s concern that the Gascon would not stay on his feet long.

Aramis spared him a quick glance, and Porthos noted Aramis’s eyes rake over him as he looked for any sign of injury but register no surprise that he had found Porthos here. The marksman hooked one of the chairs with his foot and swung it slightly toward him before depositing D’Artagnan on its hard seat. The young swordsman sat heavily, his grief-stricken face pale under the shock of his long dark hair. Aramis stood rigid by D’Artagnan’s side, a hand on his comrade’s shoulder, his face an unreadable mask of emotions. It looked like he wanted to say something as he licked his lips and opened his mouth, but no words came from the glib libertine who typically never was at a loss for words. Porthos waited, but no other footsteps came from the corridor. He felt his heart constrict and his breath caught in his throat before he could force a sound from his lips. 

“Athos?” the word was barely a whisper, fear clinging to his spine.

Aramis gave a slight shake of his head, struggling for words himself, “With the Queen,” he answered gruffly, tears glistening at the corners of his eyes.

Porthos nodded and sounded a long, slow exhale through pursed lips, relief sliding over him as Aramis confirmed that Athos’s absence did not signify another loss. Porthos’s jaw worked as he struggled to get the next word past his lips. 

“Treville?” he finally said, voice thick with emotion. It wasn’t actually a question, but nothing was going to be real for Porthos until he shared it with someone else. It had been existing only in him this terrible emptiness.

Aramis again seemed unable to speak. His lips remained tightly pressed together as his jaw clenched and he looked at the floor. With great effort he finally raised his head and Porthos found his eyes, holding their shared sorrow in the glance between them. 

“We brought him home,” the words spilled from Aramis in a quiet rush, punctuated by D’Artagnan choking back a small sob. Both their eyes were drawn to their youngest comrade as D’Artagnan buried his face in his hands and his body slumped forward on the chair. Aramis shifted his grip to the back of D’Artagnan’s neck as the young swordsman fought to contain his grief. Four years of war and D’Artagnan was still the tenderhearted one who wore his emotions as prominently as his pauldron. He never lost his capacity for joy or for tears and Porthos was glad. D’Artagnan wept for all of them today.

They stood in silence as even D’Artagnan made no sound although his shoulders shook. A tenuous and unexpected peace settled over him as D’Artagnan’s raw expression of emotion brought some small solace. Porthos saw Aramis tighten his grip on D’Artagnan even as the marksman brought up his other hand to swipe at his own eyes. Blinking back the remnants of the tears, Aramis gave a deep sigh and raised his head to meet Porthos’s gaze again. Aramis’s jawline had softened and he realized he too had let something go as D’Artagnan quietly cried. Aramis offered Porthos a bittersweet smile, indicating he was alright, commenting on their weeping comrade, thanking him for being in this room with him now. All in a smile and Porthos replied in kind, a near chuckle coming from his mouth as he reveled in their comraderie even beneath the shadow of their loss.

“He alright?” Porthos said with a nod of his chin toward D’Artagnan. The words had no trouble coming out now.

“Stab wound in the shoulder and, of course, a blow to the head,” Aramis answered, assuming correctly that Porthos was asking about D’Artagnan’s wounds and not his emotional state which he could easily see for himself. They were all shattered. No use talking about that. “Can you get me the medical kit?” Aramis added.

Porthos nodded and crossed behind the desk, opening the cabinet that stood below the archive of parchments and scrolls. Porthos pulled out the worn canvas bag, frayed and stained from decades of service. Treville had carried this since his first days as a soldier and even as First Minister he had not left it behind. Despite the bag’s age, it was freshly stocked. Treville had thrown it across the room at one of them often enough for them to know why. They may be seasoned soldiers but they still fought the red guards like cadets on a holiday. They were constantly in need of patching up. 

Porthos brought the bag around and leaned against the desk while Aramis bent over and whispered something to D’Artagnan. For a moment D’Artagnan looked to Porthos every inch the boy who had come barreling into the garrison nearly eight years ago, not the battle-tested soldier who had fought by his side for four years. The Gascon nodded at whatever Aramis had said and wiped his eyes as his breathing steadied. Aramis looked down on the bowed head with a fond gaze and Porthos knew he too was thinking about those first days. D’Artagnan straightened in the chair and gave Porthos a thin sheepish smile.

“It’s alright, Whelp,” Porthos said, leaning forward to affectionately clap a hand to the side of D’Artagnan’s face as he returned to a nickname they had long ago left behind in the trenches of war. D’Artagnan rolled his eyes but nevertheless reached up to squeeze Porthos’s hand on his face, offering him some comfort in return. 

“Aaahhh! Aramis!” D’Artagnan hissed as he cringed away from the marksman’s fingers digging at his scalp. “It’s fine, leave it!”

“Sit still,” Aramis countered, ignoring the young swordsman’s protests. D’Artagnan squirmed, silently pleading to Porthos to intervene. Porthos just smiled and shook his head knowing better than to interfere with Aramis in anything really.

“Skin’s not broken, so we can just add this to your list of bumps,” Aramis said, “How does your head feel?”

“How do you think it feels?” D’Artagnan said looking up at him with a challenge, but the edge in his voice was playful. Aramis raised a brow at his impertinence but took the opportunity to take D’Artagnan’s face from under the chin and inspect the cut at his hairline that had dripped blood down the side of his face. D’Artagnan closed his eyes but didn’t fight, probably not willing to move what had to be a throbbing head no more than necessary.

“This is shallow,” Aramis pronounced, “Just needs to get cleaned up. Get your doublet off, I want to see that shoulder,” Aramis said, holding out his hand for the medical kit. Porthos handed it over and Aramis started rummaging through it for supplies while D’Artagnan started to undo the buckles of his doublet. He winced as the gesture pulled at his wound and Porthos stood and leaned over him, swatting D’Artagnan’s hands away and pulling the straps free. He helped D’Artagnan shrug out of his heavy leather and slung it over the back of the other chair. Porthos gave a low whistle looking at the bloodied shirt draped over the Gascon’s lean frame and moved behind him, pulling the fabric up and helping D’Artagnan slip his right arm out of the voluminous sleeve. 

“Here,” Aramis said, offering Porthos a cloth he had dampened from the water pitcher always set on the cupboard on the wall opposite Treville’s desk. Porthos carefully cleaned the blood away while Aramis stripped off his own doublet and rolled up his sleeves. D’Artagnan just tried to stay still. The wound cleaned, Porthos looked at the two-inch gash running lengthwise through the muscles below D’Artagnan’s shoulder blade. 

Porthos made room for Aramis to step beside him, a rag and a small bottle of distilled spirits in his hand. He exchanged a look with Porthos and Porthos knew to place his hands on D’Artagnan’s neck and arms, helping to keep him immobilized. Porthos caught D’Artagnan’s eye and he nodded, acknowledging he knew what was coming. Aramis tipped the bottle over the wound and D’Artagnan winced as the alcohol burned into the gash. Porthos held him steady as Aramis placed his other hand with the rag under the wound and used a finger to slightly widen the slice in the skin. Pouring another measure into the open cut caused D’Artagnan to involuntarily struggle against Porthos’s hands, but the big man kept him in his chair. Porthos felt his anger rise as he watched D’Artagnan fight with the pain. Porthos had seen who dragged in D’Artagnan wounded and bound and promised himself the reckoning would be deep when they finally caught up with Grimaud for the pain he had inflicted on the people he loved.

Aramis held the cloth over the wound, pressing lightly to slow the bleeding he had aggravated. D’Artagnan’s body relaxed as the fire of the alcohol dissipated. He slumped slightly forward, his head rolling to the side to lean against Porthos’s thigh. Porthos stood there, one hand still on D’Artagnan’s shoulder and the other lightly pressed to the side of D’Artagnan’s head, while Aramis began the needlework.

There was something comforting about standing closely with his brothers in arms, feeling the reassuring warmth of D’Artagnan pressed against his leg, the brush of Aramis against his shoulder. It was all so practiced, so normal. They had done this dozens of times for each other over the years and often enough in this very room. It startled Porthos that his involvement with treating D’Artagnan’s wound so quickly eased the intensity of the loss he had been feeling just minutes ago. The hollowness in his chest was still there, but Porthos’s heart was far from empty. He might be orphaned, but he was no longer alone.

Athos, of course, entered so quietly that none of them heard him approach. Porthos glanced up as the swordsman came through the door, knowing by his trajectory he was heading for the cabinet behind the desk, although this time the prize was Treville’s stock of brandy. Athos took up the bottle and four glasses and placed them in a row on the desk, raising an eyebrow in an obvious question to Porthos as he noted the distinctive blade laying across the now pristinely stacked paperwork. Porthos knew it was a question he could not answer and gave Athos a light shrug, knowing his friend could see the sadness and confusion in his eyes. Athos nodded, his own steely eyes full of a raw pain that somehow left no indication on his face. That was Athos though, the world was falling apart around them and Athos was calm and unmoved, none but his dearest friends could see the torture in his soul through the window of his eyes.

As Athos poured the brandy, Aramis glanced up at him from his suturing. “The Queen?” he asked lightly, and everyone pretended they did not hear the desperate plea in his voice.

“The Queen is grateful to each of us for the role we played in returning her son to her safely,” Athos said, answering the question that Aramis had really asked. Porthos noted that even still amongst the four of them, they did not speak openly of what they knew within the bounds of the palace. It was a rule Treville had set in place and still they did not break it. Beside him, he felt something shift in Aramis’s body as his friend let go of part of the burden he had been carrying when he entered the room.

“The Queen is also as saddened as we are at . . . at our loss,” Athos faltered as he too seemed unable to speak the words. Athos sighed as he picked up the four glasses in one hand, still holding the brandy in the other. He came around to the front of the desk as Aramis finished tying off the last knot in his suturing. Porthos helped D’Artagnan shrug back into his shirt while Aramis washed his hands in the water basin. Athos held out his hand with the glasses as Aramis returned. Porthos slipped an arm under D’Artagnan to help him to his feet, keeping the grip around his arm even as he reached with the other one for a glass. Aramis took two, handing one to D’Artagnan. They stood shoulder to shoulder as Athos’s eyes flicked over each of them. Porthos knew Athos needed to check in with each of them, measure the depth of pain, offer the solace of his own. When his eyes met Athos’s, Porthos felt the constriction return to his chest, the ache in his heart reassert himself. This was real, this was now.

Athos raised the bottle of brandy, “For Treville,” he said in a low rough voice as he poured a measure of the golden liquid to the floor. Porthos swallowed the lump in his throat and tightened his hold on D’Artagnan as the Gascon’s breath hitched on a choking sob. He glanced at Aramis and saw two great tears tracking down the marksman’s face. Aramis seemed unashamed at the grief now that they were sharing it. They stood in silence, each in their own thoughts and then in a ritual all too well-worn for any musketeer, Athos raised his glass to the center. 

They mirrored the gesture and toasted in unison, “All for one,” four deep voices rough and cracked with the depth of their emotions. Porthos swallowed down the brandy in two great gulps, letting the burning liquid trail down his throat and push back the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. They handed their glasses back to Athos who set them along with the bottle back on the desk while Aramis shrugged back into his long leather doublet and started to rewind the sash around his hips. Porthos helped D’Artagnan with his leathers and weapons, busying themselves in trivial tasks as they silently came to terms that they would have to leave this room.

“The Queen has declared that Treville’s body will lay in state for three days as befitting his status as First Minister and a Hero to the people of France. We will provide the honor guard at a state funeral at Notre Dame,” Athos said, breaking the silence. His voice was steady now, controlled and confident. Porthos felt himself naturally leaning into that strength, knowing the others did as well. “We have duties back at the Garrison,” Athos added. It was time to go.

Aramis turned his back to them and put his hand on his hips sighing deeply, looking down at the floor. D’Artagnan shifted away from Porthos and straightened his shoulders, steady on his feet, but his face grim. No more tears graced his eyes. Porthos felt as if his feet had grown roots. He was not sure if he could take even a single step. Athos made his way back around the desk toward the door and Aramis turned to him, taking off his hat and putting a hand to Athos's chest. Porthos could see that Aramis’s stance was not one of challenge and his face looked troubled. Athos dipped his head, signaling to Aramis his concern and curiosity. It took another moment before Aramis could speak.

“There are things that must be done,” the marksman said gruffly, “To see him to his final rest,” Aramis swallowed, fighting his emotions so he could softly continue, “I would see them done,” his eyes pleaded with the man before him. Athos sighed and gave a small nod, then put his arm around Aramis’s neck and pull him forward in a half embrace. He gave the marksman a soft kiss on the side of his head before he released him. Aramis dipped his head in thanks, replacing his hat as he turned and left the room. 

D’Artagnan straightened his back and gave his doublet a small tug. “I’ll get the horses,” he said moving toward the door. Athos stopped him and with a hand on his shoulder and the Gascon wrapped their Captain in a tight and quick hug. Porthos smiled because despite what most people thought Athos had the biggest heart of all of them. He clapped D’Artagnan on the back and the young soldier moved out the door, some of his trademark swagger returning to his step.

Porthos sighed, not really ready to go but not able to stay, particularly without his brothers. He gave a final glance around the room, grateful the respite and sanctuary it had provided. Grateful that Treville had made it be that for them. 

“Alright then,” he said as much to himself as to Athos, sliding his hat back on his head. His feet did not let him down as he had expected and he moved to the door.

“Your sword,” Athos said, a gentle nudge to Porthos about the blade he had left carefully placed across Treville’s desk. Porthos looked back at the sword, feeling tears sting his eyes as he remembered the day Treville had asked him to bear it. The day they rode for war against Spain.

“Nah,” Porthos paused before the swordsman, “It was my honor to carry it these years. Magnificent blade. Saved your neck more than once,” he said with a smirk to Athos, “But it’s Treville’s. It should rest in his hands.” Athos’s face softened at his words and he graced Porthos with one of his rare, fond smiles.

“Porthos,” Athos said his voice full of affection as he placed a hand to the larger man’s shoulder, “You are his legacy. You are the man he chose to carry his honor into battle. You are the musketeer who made him proudest of all” Athos tightened his grip on Porthos’s shoulder as Porthos bowed his head, weighed in grief again, “Take up the sword,” Athos said quietly, shifting his hand to gently clap Porthos’s cheek as he leaned his forehead against Porthos’s head, “You carry his legacy for all of us, my friend.” 

Porthos swallowed thickly, unable to answer Athos, but leaned in to the strength and comfort his friend offered. He clapped Athos on the back as he nodded his head and stepped from the embrace. Porthos stood before the desk, realizing the desk, this office, were now a shrine honoring the man who above all others had influenced his life the most. Porthos might not feel he deserved this, but Treville had and Athos was right, he had a responsibility to them all. Reverently, Porthos took up the blade again, letting his eyes run its length once more. He turned to Athos and nodded, proudly slipping the sword back into its hanger at his belt. Athos gave him that same soft smile again and then they left the room together, Treville’s sword at Porthos’s side taking on a comforting and protective a presence - a father’s hand to the shoulder of his son.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of the cadet pin comes from the end of Season 1, Ep. 8 “The Challenge” – in the moment where D’Art is receiving his pauldron there is a fleur-de-lis on his baldric even though he is not yet a musketeer. Most of them have other fleur-de-lis medals and symbols on their uniforms so I thought perhaps cadets or recruits received these. In Season 3 the recruits have blue arm bands, but I decided that was due to less money for uniforms due to the war. Maybe they have pins too – I didn’t look closely.


End file.
